


Home is the nicest word (almost).

by telemachus



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Hobbits, M/M, True Love, hobbits are hobbits, hobbits like food, long established relationship, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 06:58:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4091341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being Mayor of the Shire means Sam still has to go off gallivanting in foreign parts from time to time.....</p>
<p>(set quite some time post-Ring-war.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home is the nicest word (almost).

**Author's Note:**

> I suspect its fairly obvious who I wrote this for......

.

 

“Well, I’m back,” he says, as he always says when he walks in after one of these trips – when he can. When he has his breath back from being jumped on by them, hugged, kissed, generally welcomed, when he can get a word in amongst all the – look at this, no this, no this, listen to me, me, me, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.

My husband, I think. Mine. 

Put him down.

Our eyes meet as he says it, and I know what he is thinking.

Sometimes, sometimes, it’s a shame children grow.

When they were little – and he came back – we used to say – Daddy’s tired now. He needs a little sleep.

Yes.

Yes, Mummy might just – go and see he’s alright.

You be good now.

These days – have to wait until they go to bed.

And that could be hours.

Oh well.

Two months it’s been, what’s a little longer?

Frustrating. That’s what.

 

 

 

Later, much later, dinner and supper, and stories, and bedtime-snacks, and after-bedtime-morsels, and grown-up-supper, and then grown-up-bedtime, and – and loving – when we have gathered up after-loving-supper, and are curled up once more in bed, I lean against him.

“I missed you,” I say, as though he might not realise, and then – I must be more tired than I thought because I hear myself add, “I always – I love you, Sam, and – I’m so glad – always so glad – you come back.”

He chews, swallows, and crumbily, 

“Why wouldn’t I? All I want is here. I only go because – because it seems somehow needful that th’Shire has someone to speak up for the ordinary hobbits – not just they Tooks, Brandybucks, but – ordinary folk. Quiet-like.”

“Still,” I say, and this is the beer talking, I’ve kept these thoughts quiet a long time now, “still. You come back – to me. All they pretty elves, women, whatever – all they lasses round here as ‘ld gladly go with you – but you come home,” and I kiss him.

He laughs.

“I don’t want any of they,” he says, “truthfully, Rosie-love, you know there’s only ever been you,” and we kiss, and yes, I know, and there’s only ever been him for me, but still – I am glad he comes home so happy to be here – and sometimes – maybe I forget to say – maybe we both do, sometimes, so I say it now, and – and we stop eating for a while.

 

 

After, when he is chewing again – and the important thing about food for after-loving-supper, I was always told, is that it be nice hot, or cold, it be something as you can put down, or pick up as many times as you like – and – it not be something you mind having on your skin next day. Because like enough you will. 

Anyway.

He goes back to what I said before, and,

“ – they elves – I wouldn’t say it aloud, like, because – well. They’re elves. But – to my mind – all this fuss about them – they’re – nice to look at, like flowers – but – so cold. And so – strange. Oh, nice enough to each other, I daresay, but – I’m not an elf. Honest, I don’t understand Aragorn – nor Gimli – how they could.”

I shrug,

“But – elves – fairest of all beings – you said it, mister Bilbo used to say it, mister Frodo even.”

He shakes his head,

“Silly. Fairest to who? – To other elves. But – no meat on them, nothing to hold onto, nowhere for a child to snuggle up. No telling what their lives have been – no smile-lines, no smiles, half of them. No giggles, no tickling, no cuddles, no – fun. Even the best of them – so serious they are. All high words, and romance, and – nothing for everyday. Bet they can’t bloody cook neither, that's why you never see a fat elf,” and he munches happily as I try to remember the nice parts of that, and ignore the last implication, but he hasn’t finished, “course, you can’t say any of it, not to Strider – and I s’pose, brought up among ‘em, he maybe don't see what’s odd – but I don’t understand Gimli. You’d think a dwarf’ld know better. They’re so – odd looking. All long, and pale, and stretched out – all hairless –“

“You said they had lovely hair,” I put in, and he laughs,

“On their heads, yes, and – oh the fuss they make of it. Always prinking it, and braiding at it, and combs, and – oh mercy – it’d be like being in bed with a cat. And even then – no elf has any – life in their hair. It’s all – flat, and dull, and – polished looking. No bounce to it. Shiny, yes, but – dead perfect. No curl, no – fun.” He pulls at my loose ponytail, coming undone again now, and then his hand moves on down, “and as for the rest of them – and don’t you be asking how I know – you travel for weeks on end, you see a fair bit of your companions – and elves – they don’t know the meaning of the word modest – mind,” he adds, considering, “I think there’s at least one that's learnt now – dwarves know the meaning of the word jealous, that's certain – anyway. The rest of them – all pale, and thin, and bones showing when they breathe in or move – all hairless and – like skinned rabbits they are. Their feet – oh – there’s a reason they all wear boots and shoes. Horrible it is. Mmm,” he shifts a bit, and puts his plate down, taking mine with it, and then pulls me down to curl against him, looking contemplatively at our feet. One hand still moves over me, even as his arms hold me tight, and I reach down also,

“No hair at all?” I ask, stroking, “that don’t seem – natural.”

“No,” he says, “leastways, not that you’d notice. But – you know, love, I don’t think I want to talk about elves anymore,” he kisses my hair again, and then, “what was it your Granny used to say about that recipe – carrots to see in the dark, mushrooms so you’ve something to look at?”

“I don’t want to think about my Granny,” I say, and he laughs again – and maybe it isn’t high romance, and poetry, and all that but – this loving is as real and solid as my Sam, my hero. Not a king, not a prince, not anything fancy – just – my Sam.

My lover.

My husband.

And my best friend.

**Author's Note:**

> Before anyone says it - no, despite their love of food, hobbits aren't immune from worrying about their weight - cf all the jokes/comments F Bolger gets...
> 
> And - the carrot and mushroom pie is inspired by Nanny Ogg's carrot & oyster pie (only the Shire is too far from the sea for oysters, & we know hobbits really love mushrooms....). If you don't know who Nanny Ogg is, go read Discworld.....give your brain a treat.


End file.
